Deadly Daddy (Fuck You Arthur Morgan III)

He is charged with
Killing his two year old
Daughter
And leaving her
In a park creek
Still strapped into her
Car seat.

He had picked the child up
From her mother’s house
In Lakehurst
About twenty miles
South of the park
Where she was found.

What happened
Within twenty miles
Is a hard thing to think about.

Windows down
Radio
Tuned to daddy’s
Favorite station
The sun breaking through
The shapes of clouds
The gentle movement
Of the car
As it navigated through mild traffic.

Outside of the car
The leaves were falling.

There was a clean calm
In the park around them.

They were alone.

Was daddy comforting
There on the bridge?

Did he sweet talk her
As he tied the car jack
To the back of her car seat?

Or did she see madness
In daddy’s eyes
As he lifted her up
Onto the concrete railing
Throwing her out into the autumn air
To fall with the colored leaves
Into the cold dark water below

Not even a kiss goodbye.

Mr. Rosecea And The Christmas Miracle

His whole head was red
And his wife just made it redder.

His blood pressure was at
It’s tipping point
As soon as they blew in through the door
With the biting cold December air.

You didn’t have to know them
In the slightest
To feel the hatred
That they shared for each other.

So thick it was
That you could cut through it
With a chilled dull butter knife
Bought at a second hand yard sale
For a dime.

It was two nights
Before Christmas.

“C’mon! Hurry up!”
He venomed out immediately
Like a poisonous insect.

“I don’t know why you drag me out to places like this. You know I can’t stand shopping!”

He went over to the nearest chair
And plunked down in it
Brooding.

There he would remain.

At this late stage of their lives
It was apparent that
They lived solely
To make each other as miserable as possible.

“God what a loud ugly sonuvabitch bastard!”
She told a stranger
Within earshot
Out of habit.

“He makes my life unbearable.”

She purposely took her time
Looking through merchandise
She had no intention of buying
Getting a charge inside
Because she knew that
Every minute that went by
Was really setting him off.

“C’mon Lois! Let’s get out of here!!!”
He yelled across the floor
Giving a good god-damn who could hear him.

He was breathing heavily
Through the overgrowth of black unkempt jungle hair
Packed in his nostrils.

He
So long ago
Gave up caring about his appearance.
He no longer gave a shit.

He resigned to the fact
That even if he looked like Brad Pitt
She was just an evil bitch
Pushing his buttons.

She was definitely no Angelina Jolie.

“I’m looking!”
She dug in nastily
Slowly...

Slowly killing time.

The veins in his face
Flowed like purple lava
His nose blooming bloodshot
Reaching it’s game-over point.

He took a quick hit on a flask
He had hidden
While no one was looking.

“Lois! I mean it! C’mon and let’s go! I don’t want to be here! This is pointless! You’re
killing me over here!”
He yelled to no one in particular.

In slow motion
He swayed erringly
Into a large glass display
Behind him
Crashing it to the floor in a loud
Unnerving explosion.

The sound was so sudden and sharp
That it caught him off guard
And he fell to the ground
Holding his chest.

His bright red body lay on the polished white floor
As employees and customers
And an embarrassed Lois
Came running over to see if he was okay.

He lay there
Gasping
Like a dry-docked fish.

“Lord, if you were a merciful god, you would take me right now!”
He bellowed into the air
Above him.

But in his heart
He knew he was doomed
To live out the rest of his existence
On this Earth
In pain and misery.

He knew of nothing else.

With that thought in mind
He slipped into comfort and joy
As he lay on the hard floor
Listening to the harrowing methed up version of
‘Jingle Bells’
By Barbara Streisand
Playing over the store’s speakers
Loudly.

The red and green of the seasonal merchandising
Within his vision
Turned white.

Lapsang Souchong

Introduction: While The Pot Is Coming To A Rolling Boil

Lapsang Souchong is
A black tea smoked over a pine fire
From the Fujian Province in China
Originating from the Qing era.

A rare tea and very expensive.

It is not for everyone
As it is an acquired taste.

Dense and sticky like Moroccan Tar
It expands in your lungs
With an ember-spicy
Resinous
Vapour.

If a black tea could get you high
This is it
Look no further.

This tea makes me purr...



Chapter One: The Pour

I pour it English.

The pot held unusually high
To a Westerner.

The boiling water
Pouring like Salto Angel Falls
Into the basin of a large teacup
Cascading into
Swirling whirlpools
Eddying to the porcelain rims.

The rich black leaves
React
And expand
Releasing over several deep breaths
A nectar the color of a fine brandy.



Chapter Two: The Cupping

The bowl of the teacup
Warms both hands
As the bouquet from the hearth
Of a fireplace
Several hundred years old

Saturated in ghosts and history

Steams up sultry
Thick and muggy
Like the air of an exotic brothel.

And to the ears
The gift of the eight sounds
Or tones...

Silk, bamboo, wood, stone, metal, clay, gourd and hide.



Chapter Three: The Drink

The warm liquid
Expands within
Running through my body
As wild horses.

The Qi 氣
Of the tea
Pleasantly
Circulating through veins
In a low rumble
A subtle hum.

Opiates tingling
The concubine’s touch
The mystic’s blessing.

The scope of nature
And the universe
Scattered like the stars
Resting in the bottom
Of emptied
Stained porcelain.

Mouse Turds

I’ve recently been finding
Mouse turds
In the kitchen.

For a little while
It got pretty hectic
And I swore
I was gonna get traps.

And then it stopped.

The fuckers were fucking with me.

My old cat
Which I’m sure kept them away
Even though she was deaf and frail
Just gave up her sixteenth life
And went to the great beyond.

She was 23+ years old.

The turds are back.

I’ll be the first one to admit
That I have intentions
But my memory ain’t so good.

So for a few weeks now
I’ve been meaning to get traps
But I’m buying fish
Or milk
American cheese for my son
Chai for my daughter
Garbage bags
Toilet paper
More friggin’ milk...

But I forgot the traps.

I’ve heard him foraging before.

The kitchen is directly below my bedroom.

But last night it got bad.

That sonuvabitch
Sounded like he weighed
Several pounds.

I could hear him moving furniture around.

Opening and closing doors.

I could hear him mutter to himself
Bitching about what there was
For him to eat.

“Fuck that lazy-ass muthafucka upstairs. I’m eating the good stuff!”

And then I could hear him chewing extra loudly
Just to piss me off.

I picked up my 1911 off of the nightstand
The Mother Of Pearl handle
Smooth in my hand
And wiggled into some
Pajama bottoms.

I thought I crept downstairs quietly
Trying to catch him off-guard.

Nothing.

Furniture was all in place.

No open bags of grain
Spilled all over the kitchen floor.

No doors opened.

No turds...

I put the safety back on
And went upstairs
Crawling under the covers
And fell asleep.

In the morning
When I went downstairs
To make coffee
And get my son ready for school

I’ll be damned if there wasn’t a bunch of mouse turds.

I scribbled down on a piece of scrap paper
“Mouse Traps”
“Kill The Fuckers”

This time I meant business.

Public Education (Sixth Grade)

My son:

“Dad. I farted so much on command today at school! It was awesome!”

Me:

“Wow J. Did your teacher give you extra credit?”

My son’s response:

“NO! But she should’ve...”

Me:

“Remember what we talked about the other day? You need to be an advocate for
yourself when you do good work. Next time speak up!”

House Fire (Burning The Past)

Today we watched a house burn together.

She used to live on the first floor
In an apartment there.

We had split up
Long before then.
She lived there
With her boyfriend
At the time.

And now the top two floors
Were on fire
Flames darting in the windows
As rolling black clouds
Vented up into the
Rainy December sky.

Five days before Christmas.

I watched her as she spoke to the girl
That lived in the upstairs apartment.

She told me later
That the same girl resided upstairs
When she had lived there.

The girl was sobbing as she
Watched her present life
Ablaze
Being fought with forceful water
From a dozen fire engines.

My ex’s life had spun out of control
Centrifugal
Even before she lived in this apartment.

While she lived with me.

The eye of the storm continued to worsen
With each move
While she lived here
And then the next
And the next
And the next...
Until her life had burned up
Unrecognizable.

I tried to get a read on her face
About how she felt
Or what she was thinking
As we stood on the sidewalk
Half a block up
From the fire.

It was like I was blind.

Still.

Mattress

Sometime
In the dark
Upon the mattress
Set in place
On the wooden floor

When
A larger percent
Of the city outside
Was quieter
And the others in the building
Were asleep

She made me laugh out loud.

We giggled and cackled together
Until it became unstoppable
So ridiculous
That we only need to look
In the other’s direction
Or hear the other person
Trying to stifle
A piece of uncontrollable joy
Released
Swelling within
As we held our sides
Getting high from the oxygen
Light-headed and dizzy
Barely able to talk
Creating our own version
Of church
On a simple mattress
With colored blankets

Radiant and flushed
In the moment
Of the ideal perfection
That our religion could be.

Ships In A Bottle

The aurora sun
Rose in it’s ascent
A subtle arc
In the eastern pale cerulean
Washed out morn.

Refracting
On the thick leaden mason glass
That once held a well-aged brandy.

Bathing
Not just one
But two ships
En-route across the white-capped
Briny deep
Encased in the solarium.

The larger of the two
A square rigged galleon
Sails flying
Voyaged across the rounded bottle’s belly
Meticulously built
Finely detailed.

The second
A much smaller schooner
Crossed the harbor
Of the neck’s chamber
Sailing away from the collar
Towards the galleon
Never to gain.

What a rare beauty.

“How much?”
I asked it’s owner.

I knew it would be worth
Whatever he asked.

My breath palled out into the cold air
While I waited for his answer.

He played his cards and watched me
Inspect the treasure.

“Three Hundred.”
He returned.

There were about a dozen other
Aged bottles with boats in them
Laid out on his table
Amidst a bunch of other
Antique curios
That I would imagine
I could acquire for a lot less.

And while each one was unique
Carrying a certain theater of charm
None of them were so dramatic
As the piece in my hands.

“It’s a very special work of art.”
I acknowledged
Knowing that I couldn’t afford his price
That there wasn’t even reason
To bargain.

I settled the item
Back amongst the fleet
Taken by it’s calling
Wishing I was a little richer
Instead
Leaving
With empty hands pushed down in pockets
On that grey-blue morning.

Piss Artist

He turns off the Mahler
Playing loudly
On the turntable
When he feels the weight
Of his urine leaving his kidneys
Beginning to push down
Through his urethra.

He likes total silence when he paints.

He looks out at the canvases
Laid out before him
Primed but virgin
And he thinks of his boyhood
Pissing in the shower...

In the snow...

He made a perfect flower once
And then later on a portrait
Of a girlfriend
He had a crush on...

He wagged his dick
Working from memory and passion.

Her portrayal had depth...

Shading and everything.

It was perfect for a few moments
Until the heat from the chemistry of his urine
Started to work on the cold snow.

The loft was silent
Except for the traffic noise outside
And then...

The treble of a continual stream of his piss
As it met the canvas’s surface
Bouncing off
With a hollow sound
Like rain in a cardboard gutter.

It splashed and rolled
Finding natural channels
And subtle low-lying basins
Upon the veneer of the sizing
Prepped on the linen fibers.

When he had drained himself
Waiting for the last trickle
To fall

Which
Was like forever

He turned his attention
Back to the turntable
And decided on something a little lighter.

Something with a bit of prankster in it
He felt.

He settled on Mozart.

A bit obvious he thought

But it fit his mood
And he settled in
To Mozart’s sonatas for forte-piano and violin
While he waited for
His canvases to dry.

The F Train

He reminded me of myself
Ages ago.

I couldn’t help
But think that he was a contour of me
Riding the subway
Late at night alone
Skateboard in hand
Everything needed for daily survival
In a dirty backpack.

I watched as he talked to an older black man
Uninhibited
Streetwise education
And they got along fine.

He had a pierced nose
And stretchers in his ears

But I probably would have those too
If I was his age right now.

We took each other in
From across the subway car.

Me
In my funky clothes and jewelry
An older man
Still carrying on his life
From long ago.

Shit!
I have stories that would make his eyeballs roll back
His skin crawl
And his toes curl.

He continued to engage
The old black man
Confident
Creating his own story
Just as I had done
A long time ago.

Black Rope

“Sit down in that chair and face me.”
She commanded.
“I wanna do something for you.”

I did as she said
And sat down in the swivel chair
That was used for giving tattoos.

I turned to face her
Laying back low in the chair
Stretching my legs out.

She vanished for a moment
Returning with a coil of black rope.

“Aww shit...”
I breathed
Feeling goosebumps
Roaming over my skin.

She wore a ‘no-good’ smile
And smacked me several times
With the sable loops.

“Oh my god...”
I let escape.

She was good.

She sauntered to the other side of the room in front of me
And started grinding to the music.

In the hard-core glow of candles
She performed a slow striptease
Meticulously winding the rope around her limbs and body
Cinching it tightly around her breasts
Waist
Arms and ass
Passing the last even paired ends
With practiced precision
Between her thighs
Before offering them to me.

I pulled her into me steadily
Firmly
Feeling the soft thread tighten
Lifting her onto the balls of her feet.

She bit her lip
Gasping.

I pulled her onto my lap
And took over the show.

Echoes

I drove by her house
The other afternoon
And sensed immediately
That it was empty.

She had moved away from the river.

I didn’t have to stop the car
To peer through the windows
Or knock upon the once familiar back door
To confirm
That the charming small cottage
Was void of furniture

The rooms ready for an echo.

The vitrine would be gone
As well as it’s delicate heirloom
Silver miniatures
Carefully wrapped by hand
And packed away in boxes.

The intact skeleton of a black bear
Enshrouded in a blanket
Prepared for a journey.

The massive shrines
Of deities
Carved in sandalwood
Cast in heavy solid bronze
Moved by strong hands
Leaving shadows in their place
Upon the wooden floors.

The frail table and chairs
At which we’d share sushi and wine and organic vodka
Were dusted and polished
Swathed in packing blankets
Awaiting.

There was no longer a bed
To hide the Hitachi Magic Wand under

It too
Packed away preciously
To be used again in a new life
Away from this river.

Recycling

There we were
In the grey drizzle
Of an early afternoon
In December

Unloading
Our emptied and used
Into overflowing dumpsters and bins

The soles of our shoes
Adhering to the mud.

He was an old timer
Moving slowly
Slightly bent
Wheezing
Lifting small
Neatly wrapped parcels
From the back of his pick-up.

His red and black plaid wool coat
Bundled up around him
Under a brown leather hat
Darkening from the wet.

I jumped out of my car
Grabbing one of the bags
That I brought
And with my free hand
Picked up one of the
Butcher-tied bundles
Of newspapers
From the back of his truck
And said

“Hi.”

I returned from dumping those
And grabbed two more handfuls
Out of the rear of his truck
As he watched me.

“Young folks don’t even know what these are!”
I told him.

“My daughter doesn’t even know what a newspaper looks like.”

He looked at me.

“How the hell do you think they separate all of this stuff?”
He asked.

“I have no idea.”
I responded.

“It’s amazing to me.”
He continued.

“It’s awesome that you’re out here recycling!”

I returned to grab some more.

He read a lot of newspapers.

A dying art.

“Looks like we’re going to get rain today at some point.”
He obliged.

“It happens.”
I told him.

I emptied out the back of his truck
And then I emptied mine
All the while talking to him
In the wet
Doleful
Afternoon.

He watched me
Smiling.

He could’ve left
But he stayed for the attention.

I finished and shook his hand.

“You be sure to have yourself a nice day, rain or not.”
I told him.

“Thank you. I mean that.”
He said.

“It’s nothing at all. Nice meeting you.”
I replied.

I watched him amble up into his truck
Through my rear-view mirror.

Moments later
I was driving over the bridge
Crossing the river
Slowly
In second gear

Swallowed whole
By one of the most engagingly
Haunting fogbanks
That I have ever
Witnessed

And disappeared.

Two Cats

Two cats are going at it loudly.

Wildly
As cats do.

I’m walking my dogs
On the other side of the canal
Pulling my coat in close.

It feels like winter out here.

It’s 44 degrees out.

Sex can overcome anything
I guess.

Especially if you have fur.

It’s all in the moment.

I listen to the cats
As I avoid
Puddles and mud
From the recent rainfall.

The sounds that the two cats
Are making
Is rousing the animal in me.

Cold or not...

I wish you were here.

I’m feeling feral.

Tom

Tom disappeared.

We used to sell together
At the Chelsea Flea Market.

We’d arrive in Manhattan at like
3:30 - 4:00 in the morning
Set up and be ready to sell
To our regulars an hour later.

We both had a good eye for the unusual
And knew how to display it for top dollar.

We sold the desirable
To the tough New York crowd
Spinning a yarn or two...

Oh, we had stories...

We were both artists.

Between our two personalities
We didn’t get beat up too bad.

We were respected
And we delivered the goods.

We’d sit in the sun
Drinking coffee
Smoking pot and cigarettes
Making breakfast on a little Coleman
In the back of the van
Haggling with dealers
Working the pretty girls over strong
One-upping each other
Like chess moves.

I won forever
When I sold Gina Gershon
Some framed vintage photos of naked women
For her bathroom.

"Dude! Do you know who that was?"
He asked.

"Nah,"
I replied.
"But she was fucking beautiful."

And then Tom just up and disappeared.

I didn’t see him at any of the other markets
That we frequented.
He didn’t answer my phone calls.
He became a ghost.

I even forgot about him.

Then today
I hit the flea market down the road from me
And there he was...
Pick-up backed up to his table
Thin cigar hanging out of his mouth.

A little rough
But still good looking.

“Hey amigo!”
I bounced.

“Yo T!”
He answered me smiling.

“Where the hell have you been?”
I asked.

“Got in a little trouble,”
He said.
“You know me, I’m always causing trouble.”

He kept smiling warmly
Cigar clenched in his teeth
Like Clint Eastwood.

He gazed at me
Full contact.

He still had a good eye
I noticed
As I scanned his table.

“I took off for Cali for a few years. I went back and forth from Southern Cali to Mexico.”
“I got into some trouble yo.”

I could read stories upon stories in his eyes
Even though he wasn’t forthcoming
About what kind of ‘trouble’
He got into.

“I just crashed at some friend’s places and did some crazy shit.”

"Then I moved back here and bought a houseboat down on the Chesapeake.”

“They’re trying to run me out down there too ‘cause I was fucking the mayor’s daughter!”

“I love that boat man! Any chicks I bring on there...I tell them if they’re still there in the
morning when I wake up, I’m gonna crack them right on the jaw!”

I haven’t seen Tom in many years.

Within ten minutes
He’s got me.

I stand there and listen to his tales
As he one-ups me big time.

I gave him props
As we hit knuckles.

“It’s great seeing you again. I thought you were dead.”
I said.

“Shit! Not me homie! I’m living!”

Of everything that he had told me
I took that away as truth.

The Dancing Girl Of Shamakha

Warm desert breath
Slithered serpentine
Through the resinous nicotine tar
Of the Azerbaijan night.

The breeze weaved itself
Inbetween the shadows
Cast by the oil lamps
Hanging...

Like rattan for a basket
Or wool for a rug
Of which the region was renowned for.

The desert sent forth
The aroma
Of the city’s bazaar vendors
Packing up for the evening.

Ripe apricots, peaches, melons
Spices, herbs
And fresh sturgeon and caviar
Fragrant like a sheaf of flowers
Just picked
From a neighboring garden.

She
Moved with purpose
Unhurriedly
Upon the expensive carpet laid out
Just for her
On the rooftop
Of a wealthy patron’s home.

Her hips undulated
Beat for beat
To the rhythm played
By the four musicians
In the shadows off to the side.

The percussion of the tambourine
Rippled down her spine
While the others improvised
On the rebeck, rebab
And tar
In 6/8 signatures.

The dancer’s arms
Also moved like snakes
Replicating the warm breeze
In front of another group of men
Sitting on a gathering of silk pillows.

The men sat transfixed in a spell
Smoking from a jeweled hookah
And drinking from a shared bottle
Of raki.

Delightful details swam through them
Each one determined to offer her
A proposal of marriage.

Her skin
A mirror
Reflecting
The alabaster
Of the low lustrous cloudless moon
Illuminating
The nearby mosque
And the city surrounding them.

The Rose (Black Baccara-Blood Flower)

The flower struck the flesh of her ass
And just like it
The bud was firm and juicy
Holding up
To the repeated lashings.

The stem and thorns caused her white skin to rise
In a narrow criss-cross relief
Welted firm
And swollen
Sometimes delivering blood
Seeping from the center
Of the dune.

Before the crimson
Amounted to anything more than a trickle
He dragged his tongue across her wounds
Pulling at the poison
As she began to bloom.

Deisel

Amidst the low-lying fog

Baby-aspirin orange lights
Beckon
Alchemic
From the shadows of the trainyard

Sounds of bells
Air-horns
And heavy diesel motors
Make me hard
As they belly-drag
Burdoned
Scraping moon-bright steel rails
Passing by slowly
Like apparitiions I’ve rubbed up against
Stumbling
Swaying
From the smokey bar in front
To the derelict
Urine steeped
Bathroom
At the rear.

GI Joe

There was
A very intricate, specific point
Where playing with GI Joes
Took a turn.

It involved
Black market fireworks
And gasoline
Siphoned from the lawnmower
At the back of the garage.

GI Joe went on active duty
One afternoon following school.

Each one of us brought our own matches.

The wrath of war
Was soon to tarnish us.

Limbs were broken
Flesh was burnt...
Sometimes beyond recognition.

Remaining charred clothes
Would be the deciding factor
Of who’s body
Belonged to whom.

Artillery would explode
Severing legs and arms
Exposing plastic joints
Or opening torsos.

Toys that once meant something
Became worthless.

And while it was exciting
To see a copter go down
Or hear the rapid fire percussion
Just after a fuse hit
All of us yelling on pretend walkie-talkies
“Hit the dirt!!!”

We only saw it as fun...
A game...

We didn’t know of real war
Until our fathers arrived home
After a long days work
Already drunk or pissed off
And they surveyed the charred
Still smoking damage
Of war zones
Patched through their
Perfectly manicured
And labored over lawns.

Black thick smoke
Even then still billowing
The scent of flash powder
Clinging in the air.

The real wars began.

Anniversary

“The ONLY reason he remembers the date of our anniversary, is because it’s the
combination to his gun case.”

Pee Machines

If it was up to them
And they could have it their way

We would stop at every tree
Every beaten bush
Every leaning parking meter
And crooked light post
Telephone pole
And sign.

We’d be sure to hit
Every garbage can
Every dumpster
Every steadfast gate
Every building's exposed architecture.

Progress would be slow.

A day to go several blocks.

The only concern in the world

To avoid the speeding metal of the cars
And the wreckless occupants
Within.

Slow motion
Floating like oil
On the fast.

Rough Crowd (Beautiful Messes)

The circus that surrounds me
Is endearing.

I am wagon-circled by
The story-faced
Manual laboring
Thick black grease stained
Split skinned, chapped, blister fingered
Bikers, tramps, mechanics, carpenters and fringe dropouts
That have lived to do it
Their way.

Just like me.

There were bumps along the way
And potholes.
Sometimes the road was gravel or mud.

Yet somehow
We all navigated our way here.

We’ve all had to acclimate one way or another.

Some less so.
Others at great lengths.

I love my
Pill popping
Needle dropping
Drag queens, queers
Glittered strippers and whores...

Funny
Tragic
But always a good story.

Urban gypsies that drink as much
As they steal or con
Moving from place to place
Bar to bar
Barstool to barstool.

They are as much you and I
Trying to burden responsibilities
And make a living...
Faced with their own daily reality
Of just trying make it by.

Who am I to judge another?
Would I do things differently
If I was in their shoes?

I also have in my sweet circle
Fellow painters, writers and artists.

Brothers and sisters
Living hard
Surviving on wine and coffee
Cooked on sternos
Seeing the metempirical world
Through
Non-conforming
Sometimes
Nihilistic crazy eyes.

It’s a difficult business model.
I’ve tried it and failed.

But
They continue
To survive and paint and write and perform
And travel and complain
About heat, hardships, rats and roaches.

They look for change in vending machines
Out of habit.

I’m actually jealous sometimes.

But we are under this umbrella of acceptance
And we all continue to break bread on common grounds
And catch up
Turning the ‘real’ world
On it’s head.

We keep each other on our toes
Walking that line...

At places like
Independent book stores
Galleries
Dark cheap taverns
Night clubs
Poetry readings
Beer gardens
The internet
The street
And intimate dinner parties.

We did the time for the crime.

We are divorced...
Several times...
With children.

We have a Masters.

We are punk rock.

We tour with a well-known band.

We are poor and just scraping by.

We are published.

We are self-employed.

If we can’t pick up the tab
We split it.

We know a thing or two
About dignity and humility
And what it takes to survive.

We’re beautiful messes
Facing our golden years together
And we’re driving on this bumpy road
Steering clear of the roadkill
Laughing and talking and doing.
Listening to our stories.

When we fall into our graves

We will not go quietly
I’m sure.

Not a single one of us.

Nymphomaniac

She was giving me a handjob
Under the formica table
In one of the grungy diners
On North Charles Street.

She told me
That she wanted to get under the table
And give me a blowjob
But I told her that I didn’t think
That it was a good idea.

She kept insisting.

“Please, please, please!”
“I want to really bad!”
She said.

“Look. You’re apartment is right around the corner. Let’s go over there and do shit.”
I told her.

“Fine.”
She pouted
Like a little girl.

She was all over me
On the way to her place.

“Jeezus. Take it easy baybee. We’re almost there.”

I could smell her cheap perfume attaching itself to me.

She was a classic eighties stripper.

Blonde
Cheap
Cute and very dumb.

Besides the sex
Well...
There really wasn’t anything else...

When we got to her apartment
She immediately got naked
And got to work on herself
With a vibrator
While I stripped my clothes off.

Now
I ain’t afraid of the pussy.
I LOOOVVVE sex.

But me and stripper girl
Went at it for hours.

She drained me ‘til I was sore.

And then I’m laying there in her big bed
In the center of the room
While she goes on and on to herself...

‘Cause I wasn’t listening...

Talking about nothing else except sex.

On and on and on...

I had to turn her off
But when I turned over
To tell her to shut up
I saw like seven dildoes and vibrators
All around her
And she was still going at it
With one of them.

“I gotta go.”
I said.

“Why? Don’t leave me now. I’m still horny.”

“I can see that!”
I rolled out.
“No. I really gotta go.”

“Call me. Or come see me at the club later!”

The noise of a vibrator going into high torque
Was silenced when I shut the door.

A couple of days later
I was back in the diner.

“Was that your girlfriend you were in here with the other day?”
The heavy line cook asked me with scrutiny.

“Nahhhh. I was just hanging. She’s a little crayzee if you ask me.”

“HA!”
He laughed.
“I had to kick her and some guy outta here yesterday! She was giving him a blowjob
under the table! I told them to never come back. I’m trying to run a nice joint here...
I can’t have shit like that going on! Can you believe that shit?!!”

I looked him in the eye
And smiled.

“Yes I can.”
I said.

“Yes I can.”

Levitation

Late 1800’s:

Six people
Surrounded a heavy wooden table
Sitting on matching
Parlour chairs.

Each one had their palms down
Laid flat
On the rim of the table’s surface
Fingers splayed out lightly
White skin glowing
In the warm ambiance
Of candles
And a fire of seasoned elm wood
Swirling in the miniature fireplace
Of the simple barren room
That was built some
Fifty years earlier.

An elder man
With self proclaimed doctorates
Sat at the head spot
If there was one at a square table.

He was babbling in low murmers.
Speaking in tongues
Coded words
Undecipherable.

Entranced
His eyes were wide open
Unlike the other five
Yet he saw nothing that was physically before him.

His face rippled with
Quirksome
Spasmodic twitches.

The medium’s feet started tapping
Sounding like a hard quick rain
Hitting the soft pine floor.

Five conductors continued
To keep their eyes closed
As they had promised.

Not one of them
Wanting to be responsible
For breaking the spell
Or transmission.

The table began to move
With it’s own spirit
Legs stuttering
Upon the floor
Mimicking the old medium’s.

With vigor
The elder
Rhythmically chanted
Volume intensifying.

There was great strength and command
In his voice
As the table began to rise.

The others sanctioned to this room
Beheld this miracle
Behind the flesh
Of closed eyes
Feeling the table levitate
Pressing their palms
Up higher
Above their torsos
Above their shoulders
Then lifting them all
Concurrently
From their chairs.

And they stood there.

Some crying
While
Others felt abstract words
Pass through their quivering lips.

An orgasmic white fervor
Started to undulate
Through the wave of energy
Blossoming like trilliums
In the cozy room.

One conductor...

A spinster
And a bit of a prude...

Pulled back with surprise
Her fingers slowly left the table.

She couldn’t handle it.

The wave of goosebumps
On her flesh
The unknown trembling that she felt
In her loins.

The sin of the paranormal.

Her eyes opened
To watch the piece of furniture
Drop to the floor
With a startling thud and a crack.

A leg broke off
Sending the table on it’s side
While
The others fell back exhausted and spent
Into their chairs
Breathing heavily
From rapture
Luminous from white light.

She too
Fell back
Sprawling
Weeping quietly
Not wanting to be noticed.

She lay there listening
To the coital breath and moans of the others
As the fire crackled.

Hoping that none of them
Took note that
She was the one
That failed to take them
Across.

Going Green

The lady at the check-out line
At the supermarket
Asks me if I want paper or plastic.

“Nah.” I said.
“I don’t need any bags...I’ve already got two under my eyes.”

Birds On A Wire

The birds hung heavy
Packed shoulder to shoulder upon a wire
Strung between two telephone poles
On Route 22 Westbound.

A corridor of high trafficked
Suburban shopping sleaze.

Sleepy’s, Super Saver Liquor, Red Tower...

Every once in a while
A piece of trash would be carried in the wake
Of a passing semi
Flapping by
Amongst the grit and exhaust
Twenty feet up
Like a drunken bird bretheren.

The wire actually
Dipped a little
From the weight of
The Blue Birds
Pidgeons
Crows
Seagulls
And Sparrows
Marking a heavy dark line
Across the short stretch
Of gray sky.

One of the crows
Passively shat out
A yellow and white mixture
Of piss and shit
While cocking his head
To his cohort
On the right.

“Gotta light?”
He asked
Cigarette fidgeting
In his rostrum.

“Sure.”

The first bird
Held his wing up to block the wind
As the second bird
Struggled with a Bic.

The smoker
Took a few quick pulls
Getting the tip glowing.

He let a relaxed plume
Of smoke from the Camel Light
Escape from the nares
In his beak.

“Thanks.”
He said.

They watched the steady
Stream of traffic
Below them.

An ambulance
Slowly
Snaked it’s way through the
Eastbound traffic lane
Sirens alive.

By the time
The ambulance had passed
The old crow was almost
Halfway done with his
Cigarette.

“Jeezus! That gave me a fukkin’ headache!!!”
He stated.

“Could be worse.”
The other commented.

“Could’ve been you inside that ambulance.”

“True, dat.”
He replied laughing.

“Hey, Joe...speaking of trauma...what do you think about marriage?”
“Things ain’t great at home and I was just wondering...”

A bird on the left leaned in closer...

“Hey! This is a private conversation!”
The crow snapped.

“You wouldn’t want me to accidently burn you with my cigarette?”

Joe waited
For the third party bird
To get back to minding his own business.

“Fuckin’ Finches!”
He commented.
“They’re ALL nosey bastards!”

“You probably wouldn’t want to hear what I hafta say about marriage.”

He went on...
“I mean, if someone would have explained to me that monogamy, actually means
infrequent sex, if any...I would NOT have gotten married. You hear other birds make
jokes about it, but this shit is real!”

“I know what you mean.”
The first said
Following his words
With a thoughtful draw
On the fast-burning
Butt.

“Im trying to hang in there for the kids...but, I AIN’T getting ANY.”
“The lady drinks too much and gets loud and sloppy.”
“All’s we do is fight. If you could have an orgasm from fighting, my balls would be empty.”

“When I get home from work...I’m just putting out that day’s fires.”

The bird to the left
Accidentally
Leaned into him again.

At that point
The crow purposely
Pushed his cigarette
Into the feathers
Of the finch.

“Hey! Watch it!”

“I told YOU to watch it!”
The crow rasped.

“Now you knocked the cherry offa my cigarette...”

“I can’t help it if this wire is so crowded.”
The finch offered angrily.
He brushed ash off of feathers
Inspecting for any burn damage.

“Look”
Said the crow...

“I haven’t gotten laid in years, and when I did...it was sub-par...so, I’m not in a good mood.”

“Don’t fuck with me!”

The finch turned back
To what he was doing
Ignoring the crow
Acting nervously.

Traffic was starting to build up
Due to an exit
A half a mile up
That congested
Into a shit-show
At this time of day.

Horns started interrupting their conversation.

“She used to be beautiful...up for anything at anytime...but she’s really let herself go.”
He rambled.

“Then there’s all these hot young chicks out here...makes me want to get back in the game!”

“We ain’t dead yet!”
Joe rallied
Puffing up his chest.

“There’s some Chinese partridges running an Oriental Spa about a mile east of here that
my friends have told me is a jack-shack. We should go over there sometime soon and
get a massage.”

“Ha! What sweet relief that would be! I’m in. How much you think?”

“$40.00 tops. If she’s REAL nice ya might think about leaving a tip in case you wanna go
back.”

The first crow smiled to himself.

Outward
It wasn’t very noticible.

But inside
He was smiling.

He could handle forty bucks.

“Yo brother...can I get that light again?”

“Sure.”
Joe said.

‘Buying’ Graveyard Dirt

I am here
With some thin silver
Mercury dimes
And a flask of whiskey

To procur the services
Of an ancient spirit
Or two.

After passing through the cemetary gates

I skip to the left
Touching smooth stones with my fingers
Letting those that have crossed
Speak to me
Reading epitaphs in the blue moonlight.

Those that seem to have potential
I pause and sit
Dropping small flowers
As an offering.

They can hear the coins jingle
And they can smell the liquor
As I am
Spirit-led
Through the plot of the dead.

Tonight
I plan to dig the dirt
From the head of a thinker
The heart of a lover
And the feet of someone strong and obedient.

Ambitious
I know.

But
Tonight
Is warmer than others.

The moon is high
Casting short black shadows.

Sprinkling The Hot Foot Powder

I laid down the
‘Drive Away Powder’
Walking backwards
All around my house.

Every doorway.
Every window.

I need to rid myself
Of these disturbing phantoms
That keep me up at night.

A mixture of
Red Pepper
Sulphur
Salt
Snake skin sheds
Essential oils of Black Pepper
And other herbal extracts
Powdered bones and insects
Anvil dust
Mullein and Sage.

A hoodoo secret concoction
Made by a well trusted Mambo
A few blocks away from me.

I placed your footprint dirt in a paper bag
On which I had written your name 9 times.

I included bits of your hair
That I scavenged
With
Nine pins
Nine needles
And nine nails.

I tossed the mixture over my left shoulder
Into the moving water
Of the Delaware
And walked away
Without looking back
As a waning moon
Was drawn into the black sky.

Poor river
As if it wasn’t polluted enough.

The Last Mosquito Of The Season

It smelled out
My warm red blood
In the firm blue crooked vein
Hachured in a relief
Displaying it’s elevated terrain
Like a mountain range
Within the crook of my left elbow.

The needle’s proboscis
Dipped below the surface
Fast and on the first try.

It really got it’s hooks in there
Pulling back crimson.

In a parasitic transaction
The last mosquito of the season
Pushed the poison
Into my arm.

As the warmth of fever
Swept through my body
Delivering waves of false promises...

And not until then...

The sign of a true addict...

Did I bring my right hand down
In a quick motion
To kill the trespassing bastard.

I watched his black limbs flinch
Accepting death
Upon my bruised
Red, black and blue vein.

I watched his wax-paper wings
Stop moving
As the white-heat came upon me
And I kept living.

Fountain Of Youth

I drank from the Fountain Of Youth
Yesterday.

I discovered it
Between her thighs
At half past eight.

The old man felt younger
Rejuvenated
And full of spirit.

There was no secret.

Only the willingness
And the pioneer
To explore
The uncharted.

Luchador

Exacting
Precision and balance
On top of the rope
He stood perfectly still.

A beautiful corpse.

‘Cadaver Guapo’.

Listening to the roar
Of the crowd
Fade out
To a distant white noise.

Inside his mind
A tranquil quiet
Formed
As he raised his arms
Like the wings of a swan
Taking flight.

He took in a slow deep breath
Bending at the knees
The rubber of his muscles
Bulging from the compression.

He had his own recipe
For style and success.

Equal parts
Stealth
Character
Strength
Integrity
Appeal
And showmanship.

It wasn’t enough
To simply defeat
The opponent.

He must do it with
‘Brio’.

He leapt with great strength
Off of the bending wire
Catapulting high in the air.

‘Estar alto en el aire’.

Flashing lights
Reflected off his
‘Mascara’.

Sparks flew
Fireworks exploded
The screams of the crowd
Came back.

Like a raptor
Full of focus and conviction
He locked on the eyes
Of the other luchador.

He could smell
The victory
Even then
Mid-air
Amongst the sweet
Caramel scent
Of warm
Corn tamales.

He flew in
For the title.

Inspiration I (For Lawnchair Larry)

The lawnchair pulled at the tethers
Holding it in place
As he sat down
Into it’s gentle movement.

This day had been on his mind
Since he was 13.

He packed only the necessities...

Aviator glasses
Sandwiches
A parachute
Pistol
CB Radio
And a six-pack of cold PBR’s.

He looked up
At 45 eight-foot weather balloons
Framed by the slate blue of sky
And strapped himself in.

It was now or never
Two days before Independence Day 1982.

He turned to his friends and nodded.
Giving them the signal
To cut him loose
From the bumper
Of his Jeep.

His stomach jumped
While he tried to stay balanced
As he was quickly pulled into the air
Rapidly rising
Shot up like an elevator
To a height of about 16,000 feet.

Approximately 3 miles
Above the Earth.

He felt light and tingly
Free and exhilarated.

He looked around him
Taking in the views
Of the concrete of Long Beach
And the green of the Pacific ocean water beyond.

LA was continuous all around him.

It was chilly.

He chewed a sandwich
And enjoyed an afternoon beer buzz.

He felt surprisingly calm.

He moved his dangling feet
Back and forth
Like he was a child on a swing set
As he entered the controlled airspace
Of the LAX.

A TWA pilot first spotted him upon his approach.

He radioed the tower and described
A man in a lawnchair
Wearing aviator glasses
Eating sandwiches
And holding a gun!

Radar confirmed the existence
Of an object floating 16,000 feet
Above the airport.

Air traffic
Was delayed.

About two hours had passed
And he was numb
From the altitude.

He began shooting out some of the balloons.

His descent was slow...

Especially when the pellet gun
Slipped out of his grasp
Falling over the side of grooved aluminum
To the Earth below.

Surely it was the fifth beer
That had something to do with it
He thought.

He did not control his descent as well as he had wanted to
And ended up with his balloons
Tangled up in some power lines
Leaving him hanging
5 feet above the ground
Causing a black-out
In the city of Long Beach
For about 20 minutes
Or more.

Not exactly eloquent or professional or trained
Because it wasn't.

Yet...

He
Like a celebrity
Climbed down to safety
Into the waiting arms of the
Long Beach Police
And FAA.

Even so
The descent wasn’t as cool as the lift off.

When asked why he did it
He answered
“A man can’t just sit around and look pretty”.

The FAA was not amused
And settled for a $1,500 fine.

Larry was right
When he stated:

"If the FAA was around when the Wright Brothers were testing their aircraft, they would
never have been able to make their first flight at Kitty Hawk."

“Where’s the love?”
He asked.

He emitted a small burp
Tasting
The ham and cheese of a sandwich
And the light
Fizzy
Hoppiness
Of five
Pabst Blue Ribbon
Beers.

Honey Crisp

This day tastes of the cool Honey Crisp apples
Picked by hand at Solebury Orchards

The species of apple that drools
Tart fall sap-juice down the side
Of my mouth
Running the jaw-line
Before I can catch it
Trickling down the side of my throat

The sweet scent of hay
Straw
Horse manure
And pumpkin
Lingering
While I bring
The back of my hand up
Too slowly
To wipe the apple dew away

Realizing
The futility
Of such a movement

I am compelled
To take another bite

And another

Until there is but a core
Of a brisk
White-sun bleached
Autumn day

Trees In The Garden

I cut down your darkness today
With clippers
And a saw.

Took me seven trips to the dump
To get rid of the
Damp
Depressing
Limbs and leaves
That shouldn’t have been
Planted in the first place.

I questioned you then
While you were burying their roots
Asking what we would do
When the trees grew tall and lofty
And blocked out the sun.

You were the landscaper
Gardener
Mother and foster of plants.

You told me
That
It was okay.

But it wasn’t okay.

I knew it
In my heart.

Everything became
Unmanagable
Spiralling
Outward
Leaving in it’s wake
Despair and destruction.

You’re not here now.

Well...

There’s been a terrific amount of rain
These past few months
And nothing is drying out.

I cut down those
Fucking trees.

They didn’t deserve it
Per se...

But now there is sunlight
Shafting down inbetween houses
Into the garden
Out back.

It feels healthy and warm
Baking my skin
Chasing the mold and mildew
Away.

It’s lighter now.

So much lighter

Like everything else.

4:30 Movie

The smells of pot roast
Homemade spaghetti sauce
And roasted chicken
Filled the house
To the sounds of metal pots
And pans being banged around
In the kitchen
As I tried to get a week’s worth in of
‘Planet Of The Apes’
‘Our Man Flint’
Or
Ray Harryhausen.

Channel 7
UHF

New York’s ABC affiliate
Was the only competiition
To stray me from
After school free time
To be out in the woods
Building forts
Chasing deer
Finding salamanders and snakes
Lighting fires
And smoking cigarettes.

If I wasn’t outside
Playing
‘War’

It was because
I was watching
‘Pirate Week’
‘Monster Week’
‘Vincent Price Week’
‘Jungle Week’.

The 4:30 Movie
Was famous for
Showing whole weeks of stuff.

Jerry Lewis
Raquel Welch
Elvis...

And then they had theme weeks...
‘Fantasy’
‘Western’
‘Strange Worlds’
‘Laugh-A-Thon’
‘Adventure’
‘Suspense’.

‘Bad Girls Week”
“Beach Party Week”
“Edgar Allan Poe Week”.

There was something
Secure
And comforting
To feel the thrill and suspense
Of a good
B-Movie
Psychotic thriller
Or to laugh my ass off
During
“It’s A Mad Mad Mad Mad World”

Only to have my
Nurturing
Loving mom
Call me in to
Have a well-made supper.

There was no arguing
That
I was going to miss
The last fifteen
Minutes
Of
The 4:30 Movie.

For awhile
I didn’t know
How the
Japanese monsters
Died
If they did at all.

Or if
The Martians
Conquered the Humans.

It was some time
Before
I found out
How the West was won.

Danaus Plexippus (Monarch Butterfly)

The butterfly
Flew in through the sunroof
While I was stopped
At a traffic light.

At first
I thought that it was a leaf
But I saw it’s orange wings
Flutter around inside
For a moment
Before settling
Onto my shoulder.

I could feel it’s movement
As it nestled down
And I didn’t want to disturb it.

I felt lucky
Reminded of the lady bug
Or the praying mantis.

When the light turned green
It whispered
Into my ear

“Drive, just drive.”

“I’m driving.”
I said
Thinking of all of the
Back seat drivers
That I’ve had in my past.

I almost got defensive and angry
Out of habit.

“No. I mean go. Just drive to wherever until you run out of gas.”
“Life’s short.”

“I’m on my way to work”
I told him.

“I don’t know what you’re on about, but I just can’t drive to wherever.”
“I’ve got two kids and a mortgage that I’m trying to keep up with.”
“I can’t just drive. Believe me, I wish I could. I’ve thought about it, but have you seen the
traffic? The price of gas?”

“Besides, don’t give me the ‘Life Is Short’ speech. My kids are 11 and 15...
And believe me, I have no idea where the time went.”

I swigged at my coffee
And cursed the bastards in front of me.

“11 and 15? I don’t understand. Our lifespan is 4 to 6 weeks...8 weeks tops if you work
out and eat a healthy diet and the climate is condusive. 15 weeks! How the hell is that
possible?”

The butterfly caught me off guard.

I took another swig
Of my coffee
Watching the assholes
Around me.

“Dude”
I said...

“I hate to break it to you, but that’s your lifespan. I’m in it for the long haul. If I work out and
eat a healthy diet, I could live to be 80, 90 years old, until I can hardly walk and I’ll have to
wear diapers. My kids will probably throw me in assisted living if it can be afforded. My
death will not be as quick as yours my friend. I have to work just to survive. I’ll
probably be working the rest of my life until I’m in 'said' diapers!”

“You on the other hand, will have just a few fleeting moments here upon this earth. Just
like that...”
I said
Snapping my fingers
For emphasis.

I don’t think
That the monarch
Liked what I had to say
For I could feel
Him take off from my shoulder
And I watched him
As he flew out
The same way he came.

I laid on the horn
As some asswipe
Tried to cut in front of me
And hit the speed-dial to work
To inform them
I was going to be a few minutes late.

Black Walnut Fruit

Bold
Black Walnut fruit
Drops around me in the fog
Like heavy arsenal
Imploding.

The looming fruits
Like bombs
Disengage
From payload
Heading
Toward Earth
In a rain
Of terror.

In my best
Re-enactment
Of ‘Saturday Night Fever’
Choreography
Which was thankfully
Done in the dark
With no witnesses

I emerge
From the thick Autumn fog
Unscathed
Thankful
To be
‘Stayin’ Alive’.

Needle And Cotton

I wasn’t so far gone
As some of my dope friends
When I quit.

I mean

I wasn’t digging
At the veins in my neck
To get a hit.

I stopped using on my own.

Didn’t step foot
Inside a 12 step
For many years.

But
I know that they have a term
For my secret erotic
Fixation
With the needle.

Something like

‘Romancing the addiction’.

Just guessing.

I’ve buried the physical part
And I’m good with that.

It’s the psychological part
That is still present
To this day.

25 years later.

It was the whole set up
Leading up to
The actual high.

THAT was just as sexy to me.

I get a hard-on
When I’m in the wrong neighborhood
In any city.

I am alive
Hairs standing
Straight up on end.

Cocky and on the defense.
Sixth sense switched on.

I am in my element.
I lived this shit.

And I am here to tell you
About it now.

I can smell the drugs.

They want me.

I want them.

The forbidden
Criminal element
Of the desire.

The dope hunger.

The crime and sins
Leading up to the buy.

The buy itself
Which was often dangerous.

The prep
And it’s smells.

The tincture cooking
Browning up in a cotton ball.

The goosebumps
Pickling skin
As I watched the needle
Pulling the dope
Within.

The all-encompassing hunger
As I shoved the air bubbles out.

Then
Hitting a vein
And drawing back
To see my sweet friend
Blood swirling
Within.

When I hit it home
THAT was an orgasm
To someone far away.

To someone that existed
A long time ago.

I have distance on my side.

Psychologically
It WAS like sex.

It was a substitution
On occasion.

More complicated
Than a condom

I know it wasn’t always like that.

I’m sure that I’m romancing the needle.

There was a lot of crazy
Fucked up bullshit
Between the lines.

Lots of
Nasty
Filthy
Disgusting
Degrading
Dishonest
Demoralizing
Fucked up shit
That happened
Inbetween Point A
And Point B.

But I’m here
25 years later
To tell you this
Unapollgetically.

It’s one story
Of many.

More romantic
Than most.

Ghost Girl

She is always there.

Walking on the side of the road.

A skinny teenage waif
In different outfits.

But it is always her.

Everyday
Blonde hair drifting
Behind her
In rhythm with her feet.

I drive my daughter to school.

There she is.

I go to pick peaches.
That was definitely her.

We go to get milk
From the grocery store.

“Dad”
“This is really getting freaky”
My daughter says.

It’s her again.

We see her
Miles all around
In different locations
Walking the berm
Next to cornfields
And suburban developments.

Two towns
With a river
Inbetween us.

She is there
Crossing the bridge.

I told my daughter
She is
‘The Ghost Girl’
Jokingly.

But I saw her
When I was going to get coffee
This morning.

I passed her
Black coffee in hand.

She gazed
Surveying her path straight ahead.

I tried to smile.
I tried to say hi.

But I couldn’t smile
And I couldn’t say hi.

No words issued
From my mouth
Only silence.

Ghost Girl
Walked past me
And I couldn’t even turn
To watch her walk away.

When I could speak again
And turn around

She wasn’t there.

She was somewhere
Creating a legend.

Nailpolish

Hooker Red/Chili Pepper Red
(Professionally Done, Bodega Style)

She was Puerto Rican.

¡Caliente estupenda!

¡Pimienta Picante!
¡Guindilla Pequena!

She worked behind a bar
In Hoboken
Called ‘Red’s’.

The way her lacquered crimson nails
Gripped a cocktail shaker
And poured a cold Martini
Into a frosted stemmed glass
Downstairs in the glow of Red’s
Got to me
More than the vodka did.

She wore matching lipstick.

It wasn’t long
Before I felt those
Garnet nails
Digging in my back.

I discovered fiery Latin Love
Where
At one moment
She was clamped on me
Screaming
In the throes of violent passion.

Her Espanol
Fast and coaxing.

“Jode como un cerdo!”
“Oy, Papi Chulo! Papi Chulo!”

Over and over.

She was very convincing.

Ruby red nails wore me out.
Her stamina was demanding.

The next thing I knew
She was throwing plates at me
Cursing me
In her native language
Threatening

“To put a knife into my throat”

Which I believed
To be taken seriously
By the gestures of her wild hands
Nails flashing like blood
And the objects
Being thrown
Around me.

I stood there
Dodging
Anything within her reach
Wondering what the hell
I had done.

“¡Chica Loca! Chica Loca!”

My Spanish wasn’t that good.

“¡Loca! Chica Loca!”

That must’ve fired her up some more
Because
Before I knew it

I was back in bed with her
Trying to figure out
The Spanish language
And the barriers
That kept us
At such a distance
That needed to be overcome.

Aventura Rojo.



Black Then Deep Plum
(Self Inflicted, Chipped, But Maintained)

She had on black nailpolish
When I met up with her.

Appropriately
I was sporting a black eye
And a jagged scar
With stitches
On my left temple.

A big black eye
That I couldn’t hide
Behind designer sunglasses.

I probably had a concussion too.

Whatever...

I was just happy to see her.
It had been a long time.

I met her in a small riverside town
In New York State.

When her black fingernails
Wrapped around my fingers
And we walked through
The touristy crowds
And ate sushi
Drank cold beer in the warm sun
Laughed
Flirted...

We turned heads...

Me with my screwed up
Bed-head hair
Sticking up
Shiner
And bandages...

And her...

An Italian beauty
With the greatest
Sexiest
Kinkiest dark hair
Tan olive skin
And a killer ass.

I wouldn’t trade that day.

Later on

She changed her nail color to a deep plum
As Fall
Turned into Winter
As the color of the skin
Around my still puffy eye
Turned from black
To purple
To blue and yellow.

Each of us
Knowing how to treasure the sporadic
Days and nights
That we shared together.

As deep plum went back into black.





Clear Coat
(Professionally Done)
(Matching Manicure And Pedicure)


We were on the hood
Of her car
As the light rain fell
Around us.

She had no inhibitions
And neither did I.

She was flawless.

Porcelain ivory teeth
Wavy blonde hair
Pristine white skin
Curves where they should be.

Dressed well.

Always nice heels
That would make her calves taught.

Sexy lingerie.

She was model material.

She was calculated with her appearance
But she was an animal
Sexually.

A paradox.

So there we were
Fucking
On the hood of her car.

I could hear the rain
Bouncing off of the polished paint
Of the Honda Accord.

I could hear the rain
Falling against
The luster of clear coat
As she grabbed me by the hair
And pulled me into her.



Everchanging Bright Funky Colors
(Always Done By Others At
Bi-sexual Girl Nail Painting Parties)

This one...
She was a wild one
And gave me a run for my money.

Her nail colors
Changed as much as her hair
And that’s why I liked her.

She was unpredictable
Hard headed
Determined
And a handful.

Her English accent
Hooked me
Followed by her punk rock loveliness
Big dark eyes
Strong body...

We would wrestle!

Her multi-colored nails
Would grasp mine
And we would tumble around the room
Knocking over my paintings
And furniture

Wrestling for real!

She was a tough one and put up a good fight.

She liked girls too
And was very fond of
This one chick
That had moved up from the South
Somewhere.

She was a knock-out
In a hick kind of way.
Her face had the big wide lips
That I’m fond of
Her two top front teeth
Were large
And had a gap inbetween them.

The three of us hung out a lot
Even made it together
A bunch of times
But then they ended up
Getting an apartment together
And then they started hanging out more
Just the two of them.

They were both slob girls.
A little dirt smeared upon
Seraphic splendor.

It ended for good
At a party.

There were a bunch of us
In the stairwell
Smoking crack
When she took a fire extinguisher
Off of the wall
And sprayed it directly
Into my face
For no reason.

Blind and coughing
I heard her laughing.

It could’ve been the drugs
But it seemed to me
That she was ridiculing me.

I didn’t see her much after that
And she never apologized.

She cut her hair short
And dyed it black.

I got over it
But I missed her accent
In the morning
With croissants and coffee.


French Manicure
With Cut Up Dollar Bill Tips
(Ghetto Fabulous)

I met her in a club
And it was a one-night stand.

We both knew that from the get go.

She kept locking eyes with me.

We ended up dancing the whole night.

I could tell that she was going to be good in bed
By the way that she moved her body.

And she was.

A freak in black skin.

She let me do anything I wanted.

“Except”
She scolded at me one time
When I got too close...

“Don’t fuck up my nails baby!”
“You don’t want to see me turn into a bitch!”

The freak was right.

Writer’s Block

Sometimes the words just don’t come
And I have to resort to drastic measures.

It might come down to signing off
Another organ
Or limb
To the Devil.

An end to a love affair.

Breaking bones as I’ve had in the past.

I’m willing to opt out
For a distant tragedy
Or someone else’s
Downfall.

But that’s not
What is on the table
Right now.

I have nothing to offer.

No golden birds.
No pharoahs or saints.
No makeshift catastrophes.

The night is silent
Except for the crickets
And rain.

That is it.

The night is cool and wet
And chirping.

But it offers nothing
To me
To write about.

Junkyard

Skeletons, glass, rust
Frames, empty, funeral
Dirty, broken, shattered, bodies
Ripped, crushed, bent
Oil, mangled, silent, ugly
Mirrors, destroyed, metal, gas
Sliced, vinyl, dusty, chrome
Melted, jammed, torn
Iron, steel
Quarter panels, bumpers
Rubber, gears
Crashed, outdated, wiring
Turn signals, valves, bolts
And pistons

Machines
No longer turning over

In death
There is discovery
From within
This curious child

That wants to transform
These things
Even if it’s within his own mind

Death into beauty

Resurrection

As small
As a thought.

Jerking Off With God

God’s firm hand
Has yet to come down
On me
As it has been interpreted
In Biblical Scriptures...

Condemning me for
Giving ‘myself’ a firm hand
Spilling seed.

He could smote me
As easily
As a good friend
Gacked up on coke
Could dab their cigarette repeatedly
Several times in an ashtray...
A cup
A bottle
The floor...
Stepping on it
Over and over
To make sure
That shit was out.

If it was truely a sin

Stab, stab, stab...

It would be over
The ash would be put out.

No fire.
Just the smell of smoke
For a little.

But

I don’t believe in a God
Like that.

I believe in a God of pleasure
Of love and kindness
And mercy.

I hold truth in a living God.
One that feels.

Not one that is ancient
And dead...

Impotent.

I believe in many Gods also.

There’s room for more than one.

Even a great Supreme Being
Couldn’t shoulder all of this baggage.

These Gods are everywhere
As horny as me
Seeing beauty that they have
Created all around them.

If they can’t fuck something
They’re going to fuck themselves
Like we do
If you’re an honest person.

If I’m born in his likeness
And he’s feeling half of the shit
I am

And he’s created all of this magnificence
That I have to look at
Everyday

I would concur
That his orgasms
Are way more explosive
Than mine.

Maybe that’s what
Started
All of this shit
In the first place.

Chicken Gurl

People have ahlwehs found it strange
That Ah’ve had a fixation
Fer the Chicken Gurl
Of Hodgeman County, Kansas.

Southwest Kansas state.

She med it somewhot famous.

But Ah’ve been told
I ain’t ahlaways bin rite inna da haid.

I felt in love wit her rite-way.

I seen her pictures on postcards
N posters
Telling of her performances
Which I traded marbles
N bullets
N candy fer.

Ah kept her posters in a drawer
N the postcards
Undah mah pillow.

Ah axed fer her tuh marry me
Within moments
Of meeting her.

Well...
It wasn’t quite az spontaneous
Az it sounds.

Ah’d been stalking her
Fer months...
Mebbe fuh tha better part ovah a year.

Ah started in thuh cool southern spring
Travelling north
Then west
Then south again.

Rumour had it that her moms
Had ‘relations’
With the rooster
Of the henhouse
At her family farm
One night.
She was in one o’ dem moods
N it was Southwest Kansas spring
N it jes happened.

That woman was hornier
Than the toads
Down at Crickbottom Pond.

Mebbe
It happened more than once.

Mebbe the rooster wuz that good.

I dunno.

Tis not the oddest thing
That cud happen
Round these here
Parts.

But her moms gave burth
To tha Chicken Gurl.

She gave burth
To a real beauty.
Tho’ they couldn’t tell
Right aways.

I’m sure they kept it quiet
Fer az long as they could.

I have photos n’ newsclippings
From when she wuz but a lil gurl
Until she wuz a young woman.

Tha otha boyz
In da schoolyard
Would chase da gurlz around
Inna der dresses n skirts
N I jest sat
In da grass
N thought abouts
Tha Chicken Gurl.

She wuz da one fer me.

It wuz in mah gut.

When i became of age...
I think it wuz fifteen
I left home
In search of
Tha Chicken Gurl.

Ah finally caught up wit her
In Suthin California
At a small circus
Layover’d fer three nights
In El Centro.

Imagine
If ya will.

Mah dream gurl
In downy white puff fur
Covering her entire body.

Stalky bird legs
Joints bent behind
Instead of
Front.

Beady burdy eyes.

A soft beak
O’ flesh
Fer a nose.

I gots down on mah knee
N took her hand in mine
N asked her tah marry me.

“Yer so sweet”
She sayed
“But I’ve already got a boyfriend”
“He’s the Strongman n he’s fixin’ ta marry me I’m sure”.

Mah heart sank
N she cud tell so.

“Here”
She sayed.

She stuck out her othah hand
N put sumthin in mine.

It wuz a egg
N it had a heart
Drawn onnit.

She smiled goodbah
Tuh me.

"Sweet silly boy"
She sayed.

I left El Centro
With a heavy sadness
Not sure
Uv wot tuh do next.

It wuz somewhere in
New Mexico
Thet that egg
Done broke
In mah pocket
The heart cracking in half
N tha smell
Wuz sumthin
Terrible.

After The Storm

Two nights after
The hurricane hit

The city still in a complete blackout

We laid down
With our backs
On the concrete sidewalk
And strummed guitars
And sang
While we stared up
At an immeasurable sky
Seeing thousands upon thousands
Of bright crystalline stars
Never visible to us before
From this neighborhood
In which we live

We were small as dust
The three of us

“Look. There’s the Milky Way...”
I told them
Pointing past the shadow
Of buildings
And telephone pole wires

“Is that the Big Dipper dad?”
My son asked

“Good job amigo!”

Music
Floated
From my daughter’s
Black guitar

Screw the spoiling food
In the silent refrigerator

I was content to be as
Small as dust

Mandrix (Soap)

We called them
‘Soapers’
Or
‘Softies’.

I used to get
The Quaaludes
From my friend Barry
Who had them smuggled in
From Germany.

For a little while
They were my drug of choice.

They made us
Feel so beautiful
That we would kiss them
To our lips
Before putting them
Into our mouths
And swallow
The small lathery tabs.

They delivered.

Plush
Slow motion
Fuzzy at the periphery
Images
Hours long
Of delicate paper pages
Turning in the breeze
One
At a time
Like Super 8
Shutterbug
Film
Clicking through the
Projector gate.

Celluloid spools spinning
In euphoria
Lessening the slack.

You could fuck on them too.

My girl
My best friend
And I
Got down on them.

The three of us
Went at it
With Quaalude-drunk
Abandon
And soft focus
Intuition.

We moved tenderly

While the day
Slipped away slowly
Like the last bit of lather
As it meandered in a trail
Towards
The drain.

Moth

I understand
Your battle
And I feel
Your pain

As I watch you
Fly into the sun
Again and again
Hitting the hot
Thin glass
Of the lightbulb

Ping...ping

I watch as your
Torso falls
To the table

And it is there
That I draw the line

Monsieur Grasshopper

The cat plays
With your parchment
Green corpse
Upon the white pine
Floor

The microbial universe
Of motor skills
Genetics
Electric sparks
Of intelligence

The hind femur
Once
Stroking the fore-wings
And abdomen
To attract a mate

Arrythmia

Your once
Leaping body
Has become a toy
For a senile cat
With a short attention
Span

Television

I could tell
That there wasn’t
A hope in Hell
That
This thing
Was going anywhere.

I was just geared up
For the ride.

The TV was on
When I arrived
And it was still on
When I left.

The intermittent prime time media network babble
Interrupted any honest conversation.

The box
Watched me
While I kissed her
And pulled her sweater
Above her head.

It talked in many character voices.

It played various theme music
While I tugged at her jeans
Down over her ankles
And got down to business.

Her performance was poor.

No Golden Globe Award Nominations
For her.

Her unresponsive skinny body
Pale bright
In the flickering lambent bloom
Exploding from
The television.

She had cable ready eyes
Empty
Preferring to watch
Anything
Other than her own reality.

Even that right before her.

I walked home
That evening
With a depressed feeling
Taking notice
Of all of the windows
Showing the same
Desperate
Electric
Resignation
To life.

The Day That I Won’t Be Able To Get It Up Anymore

I have concerns
About the day
When I won’t be able to
Get it up anymore.

The grey hair
More hair
Slightly paunchy stomach
Don’t bother me so much
About middle age
As the foresight
And inevitability
Of not being able to get
A hard-on.

I love women.

I love pussy.

I love women
And pussy
And more importantly
Everything connected to them.

They are exceptional.

I love the arch at the top of the thigh.
The slope of the breast
Meeting the underside
Of the nipple.

The sinews of the gastrocnemius
And peroneus longus
Carving
Like rivers
For thousands
Of years
Into the curve
Of a warm ankle.

I really appreciate
Pretty feet.

Pretty feet
Are ‘arte eccezionale’.

The cascade
Of the spine
As it pours
Into a perfect
Heart-shaped
Ass.

All of this I love.

The sculpture of the arm and back
As it meets the neck.

Hair falling
Tangled and wired
Framed around
An oval face
And wide lips.

It’s a beautiful thing.

Breakfast in the morning.

I’m making it.

Homemade pancakes
With fresh fruit
And maple syrup.

Crisp bacon.

Stovetop lattes.

The sun is up.
The weather is undeniably perfect.

And I will be totally obsessed
With why I couldn’t
Get it up
The night before.

Death Of The Typewriter

Hemingway’s first typewriter
Was a Corona #3
Given to him on his 22nd birthday
By his then fiance
Hadley Richardson.

It was a durable
Compact typer
Perfect for a roving reporter
Sending dispatches.

600,000 sold in it’s 30 years
Of manufacture.

In a drunken rage
Hemingway
Proceeded to throw
The Corona #3
Out of the window
Of their fourth floor
Paris apartment window.

He spit after it
Cursing thunderously
Watching it
Corkscrew to it’s death
On the cobblestones
Below.

They divorced shortly thereafter
And he switched to a
Corona #4
Followed by a 1940’s Royal
When he was in Cuba.

He kept his ‘Lady’
In the bedroom
On a small shelf
By the window
As he preferred to write
Standing up.

The ‘Lady’
Sold just recently
At auction
With the original leather case

For a paltry
$2750.00.

She died in the hands of a collector.

Orwell wrote “1984”
On a Remington Portable
(Model #2)
Nicknamed
“Right Hand Man”.

It had a retractable toolbar
To lower the profile
For easier travel.

By the time
His now famous novel
Was packaged to send to the publishers
His physical health had declined
To the point
That he never wrote
Nor used the “Right Hand Man”
Ever again.

The typewriter died of neglect and old age.
It fell into disrepair
Keys locked up arthritic
Ribbons dried and crackled.

It eventually retired to the curb.

Kerouac was a wiz
On a 1930’s Underwood Portable
And a Royal Standard.

Ginsberg swore
That Jack could type
A staggering 110-120 wpm.

Legend has it
That he sat and typed
“On The Road”
In three weeks
On a single roll of paper
While visiting his friends
Neal and Carolyn Cassidy
On THEIR typewriter.

His last typewriter
Died just before he did
At around 11:00 in the morning
On October 20, 1969.

He was drunk from whiskey and malt liquor
And felt sick to his stomach.

He got up to go to the bathroom
Swaying dizzly
Falling into the cluttered table
Knocking the machine
To the floor
Throwing up blood
All over it
As pieces fractured off
And typebars became
Forever entangled.

Burroughs either wrote by hand
Or used a typewriter.

He wrote in detail
Of composing on insect typewriters
And of Soft Typewriters
That would write our lives
And books
Into existence.

Some pretty serious hoo-haa
That went to that
‘Great Big Fix’
With him.

Bukowski
America’s greatest poet
Tapped away on a Model HH Underwood Standard
And an Olympia SG Model
At different points
In his career.

The machines nestled in with the disarray
Of bottles
And ash trays
And a radio
That favored Mahler.

Neighbors
Could hear the keybars
Hitting the carriage
All times
Day or night.

On Christmas Day
1990
He received a
Macintosh IIsi computer
And a laser printer
From his wife Linda.

He even took classes.

Gone were the golden sounds
Of click, click, click
In the courtyard...

Hunter S Thompson
Took his red IBM Selectric
Out into the fields
Of Owl Farm
And shot it.

He did this several times
Each time replacing it
With the same model and color.

One time he used a stick of dynamite
“To really get at that fucker!”

His last typewriter
Was witness to his suicide
With the word
‘Counselor’
Typed onto the vellum
Scrolled around it’s barrel.

After completing his novel
‘Beautiful Losers’
In 1966
Leonard Cohen
Tossed his typewriter
Into the Aegean Sea.

William Gibson used a Hermes 2000 Model
To complete ‘The Necromancer’
And half of ‘Count Zero’
When a mechanical failure
And lack of replacement parts
Forced him to
An Apple IIc computer.

Harry Crews hammered away
On an Underwood II
A Royal Desktop
And an IBM Selectric
And in 1976
Unleashed ‘Feast Of Snakes’.

When it was time
His typewriters
Were beaten in a fair fight
And died a low-rent
Death
In a Southern
Ignorant
Country
Kind of way.

In 2008 it was reported
That New York City purchased
A few thousand typewriters
Mostly for the Police Department
At the total cost of $982,269
With another $99,570 spent in 2009
For the maintenance
Of all existing typewriters.

At the close of 2009
A heavily weathered, light blue
Lettera 32 Olivetti manual machine
That Cormac McCarthy said
“He bought in 1963 for $50”
And clacked out about
Five million
Fairly renowned words
Including
‘No Country For Old Men’
Sold at Christie’s to an unidentified American collector
For $254,500
More than 10 times it’s high estimate of $20,000.

Mr. McCarthy
Chose not to use the opportunity
To move into the digital age.

Instead
A friend of his bought him a replacement typewriter.

The same Olivetti model
For less than $20.

On April 29, 2011
The world’s last
Operational
Typewriter factory
Closed.

Godrej & Boyce
In Mumbai, India
Closed it’s doors
After a 114 year run.

The world gets forever noisier
But will now be
Somehow
More silent.

Creationism Begins In An Unmade Bed As The World Outside Ceases To Exist

Waking up
Muscles tight
Hair in knots
Breath stale of wine
And carnal injestion

The outside world
Broke apart throughout
The night
Crashing like the seawalls
In a violent storm

We
Lie in the bed
Vertiginous
Limbs
Enclosing torsos
Like grapevines growing
Sinewy

Unaware
That everything has been washed away
Evolution never
Existed

Each one of us
Wondering to ourselves
Simply
Who
Would go downstairs
To make the coffee

The Undeniable Face Of Howard Stern Found Upon A Moldy Vegetable Pulled Out Of My Fridge In Hopes Of Using It For Dinner

I took out the half used squash
From my refrigerator
To make the rest of my dinner.

There on the cut end
Mold had formed
And I swear to God
That it was a portrait of Howard Stern
With his long kinky hair
And big hooked Jewish nose.

Cross my heart and
Hope to die
It spoke

“Babba Booey”.
“Babba Booey”.

I’m a private person
And certainly couldn’t handle the celebrity
Of calling the New York Post
To announce
That I had the exact likeness
Of Howard Stern
Portrayed in blue-green fungie
On a vegetable
That I had just pulled
From a drawer in my fridge.

Front page news.

Plus
I’m in Jersey
So my rationale was
By the time they got their
News squandrons out here
It might not look anything like Howard Stern
At all.

“Save yourself the embarassment”
I thought.

So I cut off the moldy part
And threw it away.
Then I sliced up the firm bits
Adding them to the pan
With the rest of the vegetables.

I sauteed that squash
And thought of strippers
And porn stars
And money.

The vegetables caramellized
A nice golden-brown in the pan.

I thought about
Howard Stern
Being as big as Jesus.

I thought about
A missed opportunity.

Jesus walked across the water.
Howard Stern appeared on a vegetable.

I started digging through the trash
However embarrassing
As that might be.

Dominos

I walked up to them and their game.

It was on East Road at South Concourse
In Fairmont Park.

It was behind a rusted, beat up, white Ford van
That they had a busted, beat up card table folded crookedly
Off level
Four players at a time
With about 8 onlookers waiting their turn
And more pulling up and parking on the side of the street.

They had worn plastic coolers and were drinking.

The group was loud and surly.

Big black hands shielded ivory tiles from view.

“Dang! I ain’t seen this since Puerto Rico!”
I said.

“Puerto Rico!”
One of them yelled at me.

“Nah. This is Jamaica mon.”
Another told me proudly.

“They play dominos everywhere down there! The city, the beach. It’s the national sport
besides baseball. Shit! They’re into dominos, I’m telling you!”

“Nah mon. We donnah pley like dem.”
“Eet’s deeferont.”

They all started laughing loud
From deep inside their guts.
It was baritone
Hollow
Echoey laughter.

They offered me a beer.

A cold dripping ghetto fourty, shorty.

“What? No Red Stripe?”
I asked.

More deep laughter
Went around the group.

I stood and hung out with them
While they played dominos.

I could tell that they were ribbing on each other
And dissing
But
Between their dialect
And the speed at which they spoke

I understood little of what they said actually.

It had been years since I drank malt liquor.

I got a buzz on with them
As they laid down their tiles.

The group became bigger
And to the newcomers
I was in question
The only gringo present
With my pink shirt
And white pants
And fucked up hair.

But we got along well
Shooting the shit
On a breezy August evening.

I announced
That I was going into
Chinatown
To get some dinner.

“Why mon?”
“There’s a Chinese take-away right over 'dere.”
One of them told me
Pointing his long black boney arm over to
Parkside Avenue
One block over.

I could tell that it was
A hole in the wall
Greasy
MSG laced joint.

I couldn’t tell the difference
Between
Jamaican dominos
And Puerto Rican dominos.

But I could tell the difference
Between the Chinese food
Served at the Parkside Avenue
Chinese take-away
And the healthy, delicious Chinese food
That I would order in China Town.

“Nah.”
I said.
“I’m going in.”

“You play?”
One of them asked.

“It’s been awhile.”
I replied.

“We be here ‘til dark if you wanna come back.”

“Bring back some ‘dem eggrolls, mon.”

“Thanks. And thanks for the beer.”

“It was cool hanging with you all, but I don’t think I’ll make it back before dark.”
“Seriously.”

“You’re just afraid to play a Jamaican.”

“Nah dude. I’ve been playing with Jamaican’s since I got here.”
I held up my can in a peaceful salute.

More rowdy laughter.

I walked away in the dusk
Listening to tiles being shuffled
And loud Jamaicans
Going on with what they do
On a Friday night.

King

She winks at me
Again.

And I smile
And start laughing.

“I love when you wink at me”
I tell her.

Then I lay back in my beach chair
And let all of the good stuff
Wash over me
Through me.

It feels not bad at all
To be me
In the sun
Right now.

I am a king
In this small universe.

Fresh Water Mermaid

“Catching anything?”
I asked.

I was drifting downriver
In an old school
Black rubber
Innertube.

As I approached him slowly
I could see he had a beach chair
Submerged
In about two feet of water
Several yards from the stoney shore.

He sat in it
Water up to his thighs.

A leaf and a bird’s feather
Rounded him with the current
Before I did.

He had a fishing pole
In his hand
And an exploded cigar
Jammed in his mouth.

His tackle lay on shore.

The line was out and loose.

His face was scrunched up
From looking into the late afternoon sun
High up
Making it’s descent
Over the tree line
On the west side of the river.

I might’ve been just a moving shadow to him
Then
Amidst the bright light reflecting
Off of the moving water.

Small birds flew
Low upon the shimmering surface
Swooping down
Gracefully
To catch
Imperceptable bugs
For dinner.

His response was slow.

Slow enough
That I could take
ALL of that in.

“Whadjoo say?”

Cigar moving
Between his lips
Ash falling.

He was a HARD
Middle age man.

50 looks like 60 or 65.

“I said”
And I repeated
“Did you catch anything?
Besides sunrays and a few winks.”

He smiled
His cigar smile.

I was closer now.

“I caught me a mermaid, but I let her go.”

“A mermaid?”
I asked suspiciously.

“I thought they were salt water.”

“Nope. I caught me a fresh water mermaid.”

“They’re a tad bit smaller, but still put up a fight.”

“She had a nice ass too. An apple bottom...but I let her go.”

He took a swig of his canned beer.

I smiled at him.

He was at peace with the river.
No agenda.

I was now drifting downriver
Away from him.

“Why did you let her go?’
I asked.

He laughed.

Hacking.

“She was a fight coming in. Can you imagine the fight if I kept her?”

“Heh, heh...”

“Heh, heh, heh....”

“Heh, heh, hah, hah, hah...”

‘”Cough”

“Heh, heh, heh...cough...”

Then coughing.

I watched his cigar
Jump out of his mouth
Falling into the water
By mistake...
A miscalculation.

Whereas...

A real fisherman
Would not let that happen.

I watched his grey shadow sitting there
In a beach chair
Cursing
About it being his last cigar
As I drifted away
By late afternoon currents

Hoping to see him
Reel in his next catch
Sometime
Soon
Before he was smaller and gone

Not to be seen again
As my tube
Rounded a bend in the river
And I turned my attention
Back to the birds.